


Puzzle Pieces

by undercoverwarlock



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24626110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercoverwarlock/pseuds/undercoverwarlock
Summary: Draco wasn't sure what he was thinking when he accepted Harry's invitation to a drink after work, but it wasn't this...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Drarry - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 234





	Puzzle Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to J.K. Rowling and belong to the fictional world of Harry Potter.  
> This is my first fanfiction so please, be nice.

Draco had to admit, he never thought he would be here. He fidgeted with his glass of red wine, turning it around and around by the base of the stem, staring at the liquid slipping up and down the inside of the glass. The wood of the tabletop stuck to the skin of his wrists where the cuffs of his sleeves exposed them. He bit his bottom lip as he tried to shove down all the anxiety boiling in his gut so that he could look up at the man across from him who had already finished half of his ale. He took a deep breath and looked up.

Harry Potter met his gaze. Then he let out a laugh that was quickly lost to the chatter and music of the pub. It was his turn to look away, but he was smiling. Draco scoffed – at Harry, at himself, he didn’t know.

“I have to say,” Harry said, voice just loud enough to be heard over the din, “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“To be honest, I didn’t think I would say yes either,” Draco admitted. He took a sip of his wine – dry, he noticed with a slight grimace, and sharp like vinegar. “It was definitely not because of the drink selection. What is this, one Sickle wine?”

Harry snorted. “Well, I’m sorry, Muggle pubs aren’t usually known for their range of fine wines,” he said with a laugh. “But I figured you’d prefer this to the Leaky Cauldron. Less likely that people would see us together.” He watched Draco’s reaction over the brim of his glass as he took another drink of his ale. Draco’s eyes narrowed.

“Worried what The Prophet would say about you having a drink with an ex-Death Eater?” he sneered. Harry blushed, the colour blossoming across his tan cheeks. He shook his head, his wild black hair falling across his forehead, hiding that damn scar.

“What? No. I don’t care what The Prophet says about me – they’ve been on my case since I was fourteen. No – I was more worried about…” He trailed off, frowning. Draco delicately pushed his wine glass away from him and leaned back in the booth, his arms crossed over his chest. What could have worried the famous Harry Potter so much other than bad press? Salazar knew he couldn’t walk down Diagon Alley without someone snapping a picture of him. When Harry didn’t continue, a realisation began to dawn on him.

“Potter.” The other man looked up through his lashes. Draco ignored the way his stomach dropped at the sight. Instead, he tried to hold his sneer in place. “Were you worried about _me_?”

Harry’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. Instead of answering, he took another long drink. He’d need a refill soon if he kept at that pace. Draco shook his head, his sneer slipping into a bemused smile.

“Merlin’s pants – who would have thought,” he said, half to himself. Then he shook his head again. His smile fell away. He looked back up at Harry. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, voice cold, practiced and level. Harry’s eyes widened behind his glasses.

Draco hadn’t really looked at Harry recently. At the Ministry, their jobs kept them out of each other’s way, and it was only recently that the Auror department needed help from the Department of Illegal Objects, a little known side gig of the Wizengamot, and the two of them had found themselves working in close quarters for the first time since Hogwarts. Now, here in this Muggle pub, Draco found it hard not to stare at the boy – the man, rather, he thought he knew. His eyes weren’t completely green after all. There were flecks of gold around the pupils.

“It’s not – ” Harry was saying. Draco forced himself to focus. “Draco, I didn’t ask you out of pity.”

“Then why?” Draco demanded. “The case is over, you caught the man and his stash of cursed broomsticks, it is not like we need to discuss it any more than we already have.”

“It’s not about the case – Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake, I just wanted to talk to you, is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” Draco said automatically. Harry rolled his eyes and slumped back against the booth, mimicking Draco, arms crossed and jaw set. And wow, he had a nice jaw, the sharp angle of it and the hint of stubble just there – Draco looked away with a huff. This was pointless.

“Listen,” Harry said after the silence became unbearable. Draco returned his gaze, making sure to keep his face neutral – ‘never let them know what you’re thinking, boy,’ he heard his father say. He could almost feel the rap of the cane on his back at the memory. ‘Never show fear.’ Draco bit his tongue to distract himself from his father’s voice in his ear. Harry continued. “I wanted to say I’m sorry, okay? For everything that happened between us at school. And after. That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say. That if you wanted to start over, I would start over with you. It’s been two years since the war. I’d like to think that we’re different people, don’t you?”

Draco stared at him mutely. Start over? Just like that? He opened and closed his mouth, his usual sharp words failing to rise to the occasion. Harry watched him for a moment, waiting. When Draco didn’t immediately respond, he let out an aggravated sigh and moved to get out of the booth, mumbling, “I knew this wouldn’t work, bloody waste of time.”

“Wait.”

Draco’s hand shot out before he even knew what he was doing. He grabbed Harry’s wrist where he had braced his hand against the table. Harry stopped. He looked down at Draco’s thin, pale fingers around his wrist. Draco could just feel his thready pulse where his fingers pressed insistently against the soft skin there. This close, he could smell Harry’s cologne – black pepper and mulberries, he realised distantly. Harry raised an eyebrow at him. They stayed like that for a moment too long. Then Draco swallowed, and said, “I… I do want to start over.”

“Okay then,” said Harry softly. He moved to sit back down and Draco released him as if he’d been burned. His arms wrapped back around his waist as he watched Harry shuffle back into his seat in the booth. Harry’s eyes were kind as he returned Draco’s gaze, and this time, neither of them wanted to look away. “Let’s start over.”

Draco smiled a timid smile. “Okay,” he said. “Where do we begin?”

“We can start with the basics,” Harry offered. “Like, I could call you Draco, if you don’t mind? And you could call me Harry?”

Draco chuckled. “Sure, Pot- Harry. That is going to feel weird, I have to admit.”

Harry laughed. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual. Okay. Well, Draco,” he grinned as he dramatically emphasized his name and Draco had to suppress the shiver threatening to run down his spine at the sound, “how did you end up in the Department of Illegal Objects?”

Draco shrugged. “Father had a lot of illegal objects. I know how people tend to go about hiding those sorts of things. Seemed like a logical jump.” He instinctively sipped his wine to hide the discomfort mentioning his father brought, then remembered why he had pushed the glass away to begin with. “Merlin, that stuff is vile. Alright, my turn. Do you still keep in touch with Weasley and Granger? I had always thought you would be sick of them after… that year.”

Harry’s smile was soft, and not at all how Draco thought he’d respond to the thought of that time. “Yes, we see each other a lot, actually. They lived with me for a while at Grimmauld Place until they found a flat together. Hermione helped me redecorate the place, although we still can’t get Sirius’s mother’s portrait off the wall. All we’ve been able to do is put some serious Silencing charms on it.” At Draco’s furrowed brow, he explained. “She shouts obscenities at everyone who disturbs her. I’m sure she was nice to Sirius’s brother back in the day, and she was nice to Kreecher before he started working for me. And yes, properly working, with a wage and everything, because there was no way Hermione was going to let me get away with having a house elf. Poor thing passed away last year, finally had it after all those years. I think it was the wages that killed him.” He laughed to himself as he finished off his ale. It was the most he had ever said to Draco.

“I didn’t know you lived in Black’s old house,” said Draco. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Really? I thought the whole wizarding world knew,” said Harry.

“The world doesn’t revolve around the Chosen One, Potter.”

“Harry.”

“Whatever.”

Harry smiled, obviously holding back a laugh. Draco found himself smiling back, found that it came so easily when he was around Harry. He swallowed, trying not to think about what that might mean.

“But yes, I live at Sirius’s place. He left it to me when he died, along with just about everything else he owned, except for a few things he left to Remus, obviously, which means he also left me the problem of unsticking his mother’s portrait.”

“I might be able to help with that,” said Draco, surprising both Harry and himself. It was true, he’d gotten quite good at UnSticking charms since starting at the Department, where it came up more than he’d like to admit. But offering to help his – well, ex-arch nemesis? “I have a bit of a knack for getting things off.”

There was a pause. Then Harry dissolved into raucous laughter. Draco let out a small chuckle as he asked, “What? What’s so funny?”

“Oh, Merlin, didn’t you hear what you said?” Harry managed between giggles. He took a steadying breath before sitting up primly and, affecting a posh accent, said, “I have a knack for getting things off,” before the giggles took over again.

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but… when he said it like that… Soon they were both laughing, Draco hiding his furious blush behind a shaking hand while Harry toppled over in the booth, gasping for air. Draco wiped away the tears as he tried to master his giggles. Harry’s chuckles began to dissipate, but he did not resurface immediately, and instead remained sprawled on the bench seat. Draco sighed as he tried to get his breath back. Who knew. Who knew he’s be laughing like a school boy at an accidental innuendo with Harry “The Boy Who Lived” Potter? After all these years? He took in a deep breath again. Then he leaned on his elbows over the table to peer down at Harry laying there on the seat, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glittering behind his glasses. He smiled lazily up at Draco. In that moment, Draco felt a strange tug, like someone was trying to complete a puzzle and he was the last piece. But he resisted, and shoved the thoughts down as he said, “So, do you want me to help or not?”

Harry’s eyes travelled over his face, the laughter shifting into something softer, sweeter. Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He was imagining things surely.

“Sure. Why not.”

Harry sat up. Draco moved back, away from that golden boy, looking away, at anything but him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Harry grab his jacket – a vintage leather jacket, one he’d seen him wear before as they had left the office a few days into the case – and make his way out of the booth. Draco picked up his robe and followed.

They had been walking in companionable silence for about a block before Harry spoke.

“I guess we could just… Apparate,” he said as they waited for the light to turn to cross the road. They were at the convoluted intersection near Trafalgar Square, and the brisk November wind seemed to go straight through them like a Hogwarts ghost. “I don’t really… well, I usually just Floo home, you know?”

Draco hummed in agreement. The light changed. They walked on.

They passed the National Gallery, lit up against the night. Even at this hour on a weeknight, London was bustling, overflowing with tourists stopping in the middle of the pavement to take pictures, Londoners manoeuvring around them like well-practiced dancers. There was the distant wail of sirens, the smell of grimy concrete and rain always on the horizon. Draco had to admit, he’d been living here for over a year and a half after he’d finally moved out, and he still wasn’t used to the controlled chaos of Muggle London. Harry was chattering on about Hermione and Ron’s struggle to find a flat – “Ron was fascinated with living in city centre, but Hermione wouldn’t have it, not with the rent here” – and Draco listened. Turns out, he thought, Harry was a nervous talker. He didn’t have to say a word and Harry would just continue his train of thought before jumping to another one without prompting. They were getting close to the British Museum by this point. Draco didn’t really mind the walk – sometimes people would glance at him in his cloak, but seeing Harry with him wearing his leather jacket and ignoring the wand sticking out of his back pocket (seriously how did he not lose it all the time?), their eyes would glaze over and they’d go back to ignoring the both of them. Eccentric, they thought, but nothing too out of the ordinary. It was London, after all. Draco ignored them, and instead listened to yet another story of Auror drama.

“So that’s why Auror McKinnon isn’t allowed to bring food into the office anymore, in case you were wondering. Which you probably weren’t. Merlin, I’m sorry, I’ve been talking this entire time. Listen, if you want to just Apparate to my place, it’d be so much faster, we’re just about halfway there I think.” Harry stopped. They were standing in the middle of Russell Square, people milling around them in the park’s intersection. The café at the edge of the park was closed but people still sat at the tables talking, delaying the return home. Dog walkers jogged by, bundled in their parkas against the English winter. The wind rustled through the empty branches of the trees. Draco realised Harry was waiting for him to decide, and he tried to focus on that rather than how Harry had filled out since Hogwarts.

“I don’t mind walking,” he said at last. Harry’s face brightened just slightly.

“Really? It’s another, oh, twenty, twenty-five minutes’ walk to Islington from here.”

Draco shrugged. “I really don’t mind. I don’t get a chance to walk around much.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Alright. But it’s your turn to talk.”

Draco grimaced. “Fine,” he grumbled. When Harry started to walk again, however, both of them ducked their heads to hide their pleased smiles.

They spent the next couple of minutes in silence as they got back in stride with each other, Draco mulling over what he could possibly talk about. Work? He didn’t have any amusing stories like Harry. Social life? Every so often he’d have a half-hearted chat with Pansy or Blaise, both of whom were in London but neither of whom he’d see more than once every few months. He had tried to go out to mixers with co-workers, but often found himself in the back of the room holding his drink with both hands to hide the fact that they were shaking. So he stayed home. He went to work. He got groceries and failed to cook. While Harry had apparently gotten fit since Draco had seen him all those years ago – limp in Hagrid’s arms, an emaciated child, Draco bit his tongue again to force the image away – Draco had kept his wiry frame, if only because he ate one meal a day. The silence was getting uncomfortable. He panicked, and blurted out,

“I have been reading a lot.”

“Yeah? What books do you read?”

“Mainly books from Father’s library,” he said. “Mother dropped off a whole box full of them last time she visited.”

“How is Narcissa?”

Draco glanced at Harry and was surprised to see a gentle fondness in his expression. What was his mother to Harry? It wasn’t like they knew each other. He said as much to Harry, who looked surprised.

“Your mother saved my life,” he said matter-of-factly. “She could have exposed me to Voldemort, but instead she protected me, although it was to find you – are you okay?”

Draco, stunned at this revelation, hadn’t seen the crack in the pavement where a tree root had split it. He straightened himself and continued walking, not looking at Harry. Malfoys did not trip.

“‘M fine,” he mumbled.

“Did you just trip?”

“No.”

“You totally did! I just saw you!”

“Nope. Better have those glasses checked, Potter, clearly they’re not helping you see right.”

“My glasses are just fine,” said Harry through a grin. He didn’t even acknowledge Draco’s intentional ‘Potter.’ He shook his head, still grinning madly. “It’s not that big a deal, you just tripped, it’s not like you levitated or something.”

“Malfoys. Do. Not. Trip.”

“Sure, sure.”

They lapsed back into silence, Draco fuming, Harry grinning. Finally, Draco relented.

“Mother is fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” And he actually sounded like he was. “Tell her I said hello.”

“Seriously?” Draco scoffed.

“Seriously,” Harry replied. Draco stared at him for a moment. Harry’s smile had faded, but his face was still warm with the afterglow of it, and with the wind in his wild hair and the lapels of his leather jacket against the brown skin of his neck – Draco’s breath caught in his throat, and he looked away, clearing his throat with a cough. As he did so, his eyes caught a familiar sight.

“I didn’t realise you lived so close to King’s Cross,” he said. Harry hummed. They stood at the intersection, looking over at the modernised building. Parts of the façade were the same from their first train ride to Hogwarts, but most of the bricks had been turned to steel and glass, updating it for the new millennium. The light turned, and they both had to force themselves to look away. They walked on.

“I want to go back, one day,” said Harry into the silence between them.

“Really? After everything?” asked Draco in surprise. “I thought being an Auror was your dream.”

Harry shrugged. “It was. Then. But honestly, I’ve been fighting and hunting down Dark wizards all my life, and I’m only twenty. I’d rather teach, to be honest. I had to train a new Auror recently, I don’t know if you met him, that handsome bloke, Will? I really enjoyed it, reminded me of being back in the DA. It helped that he was fit.”

When Draco stumbled this time, Harry didn’t say anything, just smirked and kept walking. Draco’s head was spinning. Tonight had been revelation after revelation. He didn’t know if he could take much more before he combusted. He opened his mouth, but words failed him. He cleared his throat. “I could see you as a professor,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” said Harry, voice wistful as he looked dreamily in the distance. Draco wondered if he was thinking about the handsome Auror or Hogwarts. Either way, something about the whole situation made his stomach twist and suspicion tighten his chest. He forced out a breath. What did he care anyway.

“So what is keeping you here?” asked Draco. He tried to keep his voice level, neutral, not sullen whatsoever. They turned off the main road. Almost immediately, the roar of the city faded. Claremont Square was quiet and dark. The skeletal bushes whispered behind the iron fences as they passed. Harry shrugged.

“I thought I should get some experience in the real world, you know?” His smile was twisted and bitter at this. “Not that I haven’t had enough experience… I guess there are things here I still need to do.” Something in his voice made Draco glance into his face, only to find Harry already looking at him, and in the streetlight, he thought he saw something like longing there. But he looked away, and soon Harry did the same.

Harry cleared his throat. “I’m just up here,” he said, gesturing to the normal row of terraced houses facing the square. They stopped in front of numbers 11 and 13. Before Draco could ask, number 12 began to squeeze its way into existence, pushing its neighbours out of the way to make space. The front gate sprung up just in time for Harry to push it open and lead Draco up the steps to the front door.

“Welcome to Grimmauld Place.”

Draco may not have seen it when it was Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix – complete with the troll’s foot umbrella stand and cursed cabinets – but he had to admit, it looked a damn sight better than he expected. He had half-expected the traditional tastes of the pure-bloods, but Harry and Hermione had apparently tossed those out to the kerbside in favour of sleek mid-century modern taste. Draco ran his hand along the sleek credenza in the hallway as Harry hung up his jacket, appreciated the circular mirror and vase of tasteful flowers, wished he could make his dingy flat look this put together. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Want to take your cloak off?” Harry asked, retracting his hand quickly. He was so close – there, again, was his cologne, heady and spicy all at once. Draco could get drunk off just the smell of it. Draco tried to steady his racing heart as he nodded and shrugged off his cloak, hanging it just next to Harry’s leather jacket.

“Nice jacket, by the way,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Thanks, it was Sirius’s. I found it when I was clearing out his room.” Harry smiled at it, and ran a hand down a sleeve, almost in a caress. Draco wondered what it felt like – what was he thinking, Merlin, he had to pull himself together. Harry was walking away, talking about the work he and Hermione had put in to overhauling the place – “Ron helped a bit, but he’s pretty useless at non-magical stuff, to be honest” – and Draco followed him down the hallway. It was hard to look anywhere but at how Harry’s arse looked in those dark-washed jeans. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been too long since he’d been on a date – not that this was a date – and now he’s gone and started lusting after Harry “Scar-Faced Git” Potter.

“Anyway, it’s just up the stairs here – you alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” he said quickly. He lowered his hand. “Tired, is all.”

Harry hesitated, one foot on the first step and one hand on the polished banister, concern sweet in those green eyes with the golden flecks… Dear Merlin, what was wrong with him?

“You sure?” asked Harry. “We can do this another day. We’ve both been working overtime on this case, if you need a break – ”

“No, no,” said Draco, waving away his concern like it was a persistent fly. “I am fine. Really. So, where is this infamous portrait?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, but simply said, “Up here. Come on,” and jogged up the stairs to the first-floor landing. Draco followed, giving himself a stern talking to as he did so.

“Here is Walburga Black, in all her racist majesty. No offence.”

“None taken? Although I don’t know if you’re apologising because – ”

“Because you used to be racist? No, because she’s technically your… I honestly can’t keep track of how you pure-bloods are related, so I’m going to guess your great-aunt?”

“Something like that, yes.”

The two of them stared at the monstrosity. Amidst the fresh paint, newly refurbished floorboards and elegant décor, the massive hulking shape of Walburga Black’s curtained portrait lurched out of the wall like a Dementor. Harry made no move to move the curtains back and reveal the portrait. Instead, arms still crossed across his chest, he waved his wand, removing the Silencing charms and ungagging the beast.

 _Blood-traitors and half-blood filth! How dare you defile the house of Black, you useless delinquents_ … She paused, as if sensing a new presence in her midst. _Ah, the Malfoy boy. I have heard how you have disappointed our great house, you worthless son of greater sires. Traitor and queer bastard you –_

Harry waved his wand again, and the Silencing charms went back up. They both stood there, ears ringing, not looking at each other. Malfoy pulled his wand out with a beleaguered sigh.

“Funnily enough, I have heard worse,” he said. He focused his attention on the frame, refusing to acknowledge the weight of Harry’s stare on his back. “It looks like she has used some sort of archaic spell here, no wonder you haven’t had any luck with removing it. Have you tried forcing it off?”

“Yeah. No use. She wouldn’t budge.”

Draco sucked his teeth. “This is not going to come down in a hurry. Let me try a few things, but we may need to do some research before we get anywhere.” Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a smile flit across Harry’s face at the mention of “we.” He shook himself, and stepped back, putting his wand back in his belt so he could roll up his pressed sleeves.

“How can I help?” asked Harry. Draco focused on precisely folding the sleeves back just right so as not to notice how Harry was staring at the Dark Mark on his forearm. His fingers hesitated. Then he began to pull the sleeve back down.

“Don’t,” he heard, and suddenly Harry’s hand was on his, warm and calloused but gentle as he stopped Draco’s hand from pulling the sleeve down over the Mark. He looked up into those eyes, not sure what he would find there, and felt his heart drop away at the hurricane of emotions laid bare before him in Harry’s face. Curiosity, longing, hunger – no, he must be imagining things, surely. Draco looked away, at Harry’s hand on his. “You don’t have to hide it. Not around me,” Harry whispered. Draco closed his eyes. With each breath, he was filled with the smell of him, black pepper and mulberries, and here, so close, a trace of cinnamon he hadn’t noticed before. If he shifted just so – he stepped back so that his back bumped against the balustrade. Harry’s hand fell away to his side.

“Right. Well. How about you walk me through what you have already tried? Merlin knows I could probably do it better,” he added, in a half-hearted attempt at their old jabs. He glanced over at Harry, who gave him a similarly half-hearted smile, before refocusing on the portrait. “Although, I hate to admit it, and you must never utter a word of it to her, if Granger has tried everything, I might not be able to do much more. Still, I have a few tricks up my sleeve…”

Half an hour later, the portrait came down with a great crash, taking half the wall-facing with it. When the cloud of dust and debris settled, Harry and Draco emerged, covered in chalky plaster but triumphant.

“Holy shit,” Harry coughed. “You did it.”

“Of course I did,” said Draco, stifling his own coughs. “Who do you think I am?”

Harry shook his head, but his grin was back. Draco’s heart skipped. Harry’s jeans and jumper were covered in white, and he had to resist the urge to help dust off the plaster, just to feel the muscle just there beneath the fabric. Instead, he made a show of clearing his throat and dusting himself off.

“What are you going to do with her now?” he asked, kicking the ornate frame with the toe of his once-black Oxford shoes. 

“Burn it,” Harry replied grimly. “I’ve been dreaming about it since I moved in. Come on, grab that side, we’ll take it down to the kitchen. The fireplace is big enough down there, and we can help ourselves to a celebratory drink after. I think I still have some fudge Mrs. Weasley sent me.”

Several minutes later, the two of them stood in front of a blazing fire, Walburga Black’s portrait crackling away as the flames devoured the canvas and cracked the frame. They raised their glasses of Firewhisky in a parody of a toast.

“Goodbye, and good riddance,” said Harry.

“Good riddance,” said Draco.

They both took a sip of their Firewhisky. Draco looked down and inspected his glass. Harry, noticing, frowned.

“What, not up to your taste?” he asked.

“No, actually,” said Draco, taking another appreciative sip, “it is quite good. I am surprised, Potter, you have good taste.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, Ron and Hermione always said I had good taste in everything but men.”

Draco, who had taken another sip, spat it out at this. Harry burst out laughing.

“Merlin’s balls, Harry,” he spluttered. “You made me waste good Firewhisky.”

“Hey, you didn’t call me Potter that time!” Harry pointed out triumphantly.

“Fuck off, Potter.” He set down his glass and went in search of a towel to clean up, not to mention his bright red face. Harry was still laughing. “Yeah, sure, make fun of the gay guy, I get it,” Draco grumbled. That silenced Harry. Draco didn’t turn around just yet, pretending to be occupied with mopping up some of the Firewhisky he’d gotten on his shirt. Then there was that gentle pressure on his shoulder again, Harry’s hand forcing him to turn around and face him. Draco couldn’t look him in the eye, so he stared at the dusting of plaster still coating Harry’s jumper.

“Draco, you know I’m not making fun of you, right?” Harry said, his voice soft. Draco bit his lip. Pain always focused him, steeled him. Father knew that. He had the scars to prove it. “Draco, are you listening? I’m making fun of myself. I’m bisexual.”

At this, Draco looked up. “What?” he managed to choke out. There was no laughter in those eyes, those eyes with the flecks of gold like the sparks from a bonfire against an emerald sky. Draco let himself look, let himself examine the face before him – everything from the arch of his eyebrows to the sleek curve of his nose, the fullness of his lips to the angle of his cheekbones, and finally, to that lightning-shaped scar. Oh. He wasn’t joking after all. Draco reached a hand back and steadied himself against the kitchen counter, trying to make it look casual.

“I didn’t even know you were gay,” Harry was saying. “I mean, I suspected, but I never – I just assumed – I’m sorry, I thought you knew, goodness knows The Prophet speculated about it enough after Ginny and I broke up and they saw me with Finch-Fletchley at the Ministry Christmas party last year.”

Draco remembered those headlines. He had scoffed at them and used the paper to feed the small wood-burning stove in his office. He had never believed for a second that Harry “Golden Boy” Potter would for an instant be –

“I didn’t know,” Draco whispered. Harry moved a bit closer, removing the distance between them, and this close Draco could see the plaster dust on his lashes. Black pepper and mulberry and cinnamon filled his nostrils, his lungs, his vision. He looked from those warm eyes, their pupils starting to dilate, to those full lips that were just so close. Harry’s hands were on his hips, pinning him there against the kitchen counter. It took every ounce of strength he had to keep his knees from buckling as Harry drew impossibly closer, their breaths mingling with each little gasp. His thumbs were rubbing circles against Draco’s hipbones through the thin material of his shirt. Draco had to bite back the moan that threatened to escape him. This close, all Draco could see were those eyes and their golden-flecked depths.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry murmured.

In answer, Draco closed the few centimetres of distance and pressed his lips hungrily against Harry’s. He could feel Harry smiling against his lips. He wrapped his arm around Harry’s waist, pulling him hard against him. They both gasped as they came together, and Harry took that instant to suck Draco’s bottom lip, to nibble at it, to lick it tenderly. Draco shivered. As Harry licked into his mouth, all he could think was, of course. Of course, as Harry nudged his legs apart. Of course, as he lifted Draco bodily up onto the counter so that Draco could wrap his long legs around his waist. Of course, as they ground against each other, moans pressed into each other’s necks. Of course, as Harry bit and sucked a love mark against his pale throat that made his eyes tear up with pleasure. Of course, of course, of course. And if he let out small cries of ecstasy as Harry took him into his mouth and licked along his length, so be it. If he tangled his fingers in the other man’s wild hair and half-sobbed as he came, so be it. If he gave Harry bloody Potter a hand job as he held him until he collapsed against Draco with a cry, so be it. Of course. Draco let himself fall into place, the missing puzzle piece, right here, with Harry.


End file.
